Favor for a Friend
by katbybee
Summary: Inspired by a meme. One of our guys wants to pull the prank of a lifetime and enlists his best friend's help. He has no idea he'll be doing a huge favor for someone else in the process... Fair warning: Contains a major character death. Also, please note, the timeline for this story does not mesh with my other stories, though some events are similar.


**A/N:** I plead the fact that I have recently been firmly slapped with evidence of my own mortality. I've had this story on the back burner for a few months, and just put the final touches on it. This just seemed like something Carter and Newkirk might pull… given half a chance. Drama with comedy/absurd elements.

 **London**

 **Fall, 1975**

Andrew Carter stared down at his hands. They were wrinkled and had liver spots scattered all over them. Everything hurt when he moved around too fast. Actually, he didn't move around all that fast anymore. He glanced out the window—the rain and fog didn't help any. _Damn._

He hated feeling like this. Old, tired and just…lousy. He sat back in his customary booth in the small pub and sighed. He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. It was cold. As usual, he had sat there too long. He checked his watch and smirked as a familiar figure emerged out of the London fog and pushed through the door. It had taken three weeks of waiting in this same spot in this same pub, but Andrew's patience had paid off. _Say what you liked about Newkirk, the man was a creature of habit._

Peter Newkirk was exhausted. _He was getting too damned old for this. Intrigue and politics be damned. Let Russia, Eastern Europe and China hang for a while…he needed a break. And if MI-6 didn't like it, they could hang, too! He dropped his battered suitcase and removed his hat and coat, hanging them on the_ tree just inside the door of the pub. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement and his hand automatically went to his pocket, even as he looked into the smiling blue eyes of his best friend. A man he hadn't seen in six years. And Peter was shocked by Carter's haggard appearance as he stood next to the corner booth…and Peter's heart sank. _Something was definitely wrong…_

Carter smiled at his friend. "Sit down, Newkirk. We need to talk." Carefully, Andrew seated himself in the booth, although this time, he deliberately left the side against the wall open, knowing Peter would want to keep an eye on the room as they talked. _Old habits,_ Andrew thought sadly.

Wordlessly, Peter sank into the offered seat. The waitress appeared, and Newkirk waved her away with an impatient gesture. He looked Andrew straight in the eyes. "Alright mate. Out with it. What's goin' on?"

Andrew took a deep breath. He had decided on a lot of things before he ever left the States. And a lot of those decisions depended on whether he could get his best friend to cooperate with his plan. His epic, grand, and very final plan. He squared his shoulders. "Newkirk, I need a favor…"

They sat in the pub and talked for nearly two hours . Newkirk ordered a meal and a couple of drinks, while Carter switched to hot tea and a plate of toast. Normally, Peter would have ribbed Andrew about his lack of appetite, but after what he had learned, he found he hadn't much appetite himself. He frowned at Carter. "So that's it then? Nothing more they can do?"

Carter shook his head. "Nope. But it's okay. And it's why I came here. Peter, there's nothing for me in the States anymore. What's left of my family is scattered all over the world. I have visited my brothers and sisters and said goodbye. We had a reunion at my sister's house in North Dakota. I told them I was coming here, and why, and they understood. Some of them will be here if they can…the others…well, let's just say we've all made peace with it."

Newkirk sat back, trying to make sense of it all, and failed miserably. "How can you be so calm, talkin'

a-ab-about—" his voice broke, and Andrew smiled.

"About dying, you mean?"

Peter nodded wordlessly.

"Because I'm not afraid to die, Peter. You know that. I never have been."

Newkirk nodded. It was one of the things he envied about his best mate. Peter himself still struggled with the question. He believed in God, but still had trouble believing that God really cared about Peter Newkirk.

Carter grinned, the same old loopy grin that had sustained Newkirk over the years. "Peter, don't be sad. I plan on going out with a bang! Here's what I'm thinking…"

 **December 1975**

 **London**

Peter invited Andrew to spend Christmas with him at his sister Mavis' home. Peter had never married, because he had spent much of the last thirty years with British Intelligence, and MI-6 and marital bliss were simply not compatible. Mavis and her husband had made themselves a quiet life in a cozy house in a suburb of London, where they had raised their three children and would now welcome them all back home with their families for the holiday.

Andrew and Peter had spent the last few months plotting and planning. Andrew had been doing surprisingly well, and it was therefore easy for Peter to forget the reason for their plans. He could fool himself into believing it was just another one of Col. Hogan's hare-brained schemes.

Peter did have one concern, though. One night, he dragged Andrew out to the back garden. "Are you sure what we've got planned is legal, mate?"

Andrew chuckled as he gazed at his best friend. "You really are getting old, aren't you, Peter?"

The Cockney managed to look affronted. "No such thing! I just don't want to 'ave to be buryin' yer sorry arse all by me onsie a week after the fact because I got meself tossed up before the beak!"

Andrew laughed. "No, trust me. It'll be fine. There's nothing illegal about it. Nobody will get hurt. I promise. The packs aren't strong enough to do anything more than make a bunch of noise."

Newkirk nodded. "Good enough then. How do you propose carryin' out this little plan o' yours?"

Carter grinned wickedly. "I thought you'd never ask. You see, I need a really skilled tailor who is an even better sneak thief…"

 **April 1976**

 **London**

Peter Newkirk stared out the hospital window at the afternoon rain. It had been raining for three days with no let-up in sight. He ran his hand through his greying hair. It was funny that the rain never bothered him before. He barely even noticed it. But now…

He sighed and turned back to watch the nurse adjusting the medication drip in Andrew's IV. The same routine she'd followed for the past week. His best mate looked like a bruised and broken pincushion. He wanted out of hospital but knew that was no longer possible. He'd been very quiet today… conserving what little energy he had left. They both knew it wouldn't be long. And that was why Peter was silently cursing the rain, because it matched his mood… foul, grey and sad.

Somehow, during all the planning of their great last prank, this moment had never really occurred to him, the _fact_ of Andrew's death, the _fact_ of his leave-taking. The reality that sometime very soon, Peter Newkirk was going to be alone upon Planet Earth. The fact that he, of all the heroes of Stalag 13 would be the last one left. And so, Peter turned back to the window. And stared out at the rain.

"Pete…" Andrew's voice was very quiet.

Peter turned from the window and hurried to his friend's side. He realized the nurse had finally left them alone. "What is it, mate?"

"You don't have to go through with it, you know. It's not illegal, but there might be hell to pay with the crematorium."

Newkirk chuckled. "Are you kidding? After all the work we put into those little beauties? No way am I backin' out now! Getting' in ta claim yer ashes'll might a bit o' fun afterwards. Don't suppose they'll be lettin' me through the front door an' I ain't as young as I used to be." Suddenly, a puzzled look crossed his face. "If what you was tellin' me is true, when all that mess goes off in there, then how much o' what's left is you and how much will be gunpowder?"

Andrew smiled. "Aw, most of it will be me. The gunpowder will pretty well burn off to nothing. If you're worried about extra weight or volume, it won't add that much. They'll just scoop me into the urn we picked out, and that's all there is to it." He closed his eyes serenely, and Peter scowled a little. He still couldn't quite understand how Andrew could be so calm.

Newkirk had another thought. "Andrew, you've never said what you want me to do afterwards. You know, with the urn. What do you want me to do with it?"

"I dunno, I never really thought about it much. I know I have a spot in a cemetery up in North Dakota. I suppose you could send it there or bury me somewhere over here. I don't suppose it really matters. If you want and my sister shows up, you could talk it over with her. I mean, stick me on a shelf somewhere. It doesn't matter to me, since I'm not going to be here anyway."

"Cor, Andrew! _Seriously_?!" Peter huffed angrily.

Andrew's eyes reflected his distress. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. It's just that you know how I feel about death, Peter. My spirit won't be there. It doesn't matter where the ashes end up. I didn't mean to be callous, though. I am sorry. I would never hurt you on purpose."

Peter softened immediately and sank into the chair by the bed. "I know lad. I know that. It's just that I envy you the fact that you're so sure of that. I've never been sure of anything in me life."

Andrew nodded sadly. "I know, and it's the one thing that has always really bothered me. Peter, you believe in God, right? That there's a heaven and all of that?"

"Yeah, and all the stuff about 'is kid and wot 'e did and all. Yeah. I do. Told y' that a long time ago back in the Stalag."

Carter nodded. "Okay, then what is that you don't believe?"

"See all that stuff works as a gen'ral plan, but I ain't so sure about it on a individual basis."

"What do you mean?"

"I just figger that not all fathers love their sons. Not all sons are worthy of their old man lovin 'em. I wasn't, so what if God decides I'm not worth lovin' either?"

Andrew had never seen an expression of such raw vulnerability before. It stunned him for a moment, and he realized he needed to tread very carefully as he answered.

"Peter, your worthiness is not tied to your father's ability to love. He was filled with pain and anger, which blinded him to the good and loving person you are. That is _not_ your fault. God works on a completely different wavelength from humans. He is incapable of _not_ loving us, of not wanting the best for us. But He also created us with a free will, because He didn't want us to be robots who were incapable of making our own decisions. And sometimes our decision build walls between us and God… and sometimes they build bridges."

He closed his eyes once again, hoping he had made sense. Because he was getting very tired. He stared into the middle of the room. The ceiling fixture was really bright and was hurting his eyes. He frowned and brought his free arm up over his eyes to shield them. He mumbled from around his arm, "Pete, turn off the light, will ya? It's hurting my eyes."

Peter looked up at the light fixture and then back at Carter who was now dozing lightly. But he was mystified by the request, because the light wasn't even on. He shook his head and stepped out of the room to get himself a cup of coffee and mull over their last conversation.

Peter knew he was very good at building walls between himself and just about everyone around him. Andrew knew that, too. He supposed that was why he had used that example. He smirked. Maybe it was time he thought about building a bridge or two. He sighed as he made his way to the cafeteria. And for the first time in all the time he had spent at that hospital, Peter got himself turned around. Instead of the cafeteria he found himself in front of a plain white door marked Chapel.

Newkirk started to turn away in a huff but couldn't. Feeling more than a little uncomfortable, he carefully opened the door and stepped inside. He wasn't sure what he expected, but the room was somehow comforting. He had expected formal wooden pews and kneelers, and maybe forbidding statues or something. Instead, what he found were folding chairs scattered in groups around the room, and even some beanbag chairs in one corner. There was a table and several chairs in another corner. On the walls were various symbols... a cross, a crucifix, a menorah, and several other symbols he knew represented other faiths.

A man in his thirties sat at a small desk in another corner. He had been working on some paperwork but looked up and smiled. "Welcome. I am Chaplain Mark Hennessy. I'm here if you would like to talk. If you would prefer to be alone, I'd be happy to step out for a while."

Newkirk shook his head sadly. "Nah, that's okay, Padre. Not gonna stay long. Not even sure why I'm here. I really got nothin' to say to God right now anyway." Despite his words, Peter took a seat and stared down at his hands.

Mark nodded. "Okay. Would you like some coffee? I make my own in the back room, and it's pretty good, if I say so myself."

Newkirk looked up, surprised. "I would, mate. That's what I was originally lookin' for anyway. Got myself turned around."

Mark chuckled. "Happens sometimes. Even I get turned around down here. Our original chapel was on the main floor and was a little more formal, but it was damaged in a fire last year, so we are making do with what we have."

Newkirk smiled. "Actually, this suits me just fine. Not much of a church-goin' type. Not in a long time, anyway."

The chaplain left the room for a few minutes and came back in with a tray containing two mugs of coffee and containers of sugar and cream. The real stuff... not packets. Peter chuckled appreciatively. "You've got the good stuff!"

Mark laughed. "I do. I grind it myself. I'm a bit of a coffee snob, I'm afraid."

They sipped in silence for a moment, and Hennessy looked keenly at the older man. "Well, you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know what to call you."

"Peter Newkirk. RAF, Retired." He had no idea why he had added that last. It wasn't something he normally told people.

Hennessy's eyebrow rose. "You were a pilot?"

"Briefly. I wasn't ever supposed to be, but things in me case was complicated. Got shot down an' ended up sittin' out most of the war on me duff in a camp in Germany."

Hennessy's eyes widened in shock. "You're kidding! My father was shot down over there, in Northern Germany... he was in the Army Air Corps. He used to tell us that if it hadn't been for some guys rescuing him, he would never have made it out. They got him back to London in a submarine! He was scared to death, because he had been hurt, shot, I guess, but he said there was this one kid who stayed with him while their medic fixed him up. He never left him. Turned out they were both from North Dakota. Can you imagine that kind of coincidence?" Hennessy shook his head in wonder.

For his part, Newkirk had nearly forgotten to breathe during the chaplain's story. Tears had begun to trickle down his cheeks. Silently, he stared at the cross at the front of the softly lit room. Yeah. He could imagine it. Perfectly well.

Mark Hennessy watched as Newkirk stood and walked slowly to the front of the room and knelt in front of the cross. He couldn't hear what the old pilot said, but he figured he didn't need to. God was listening, and that was what counted.

 **Andrew's Room**

Peter opened the door quietly about an hour after he had left. He had asked the staff at the nurse's station to page him if anything happened with Andrew while he was gone, but thankfully nothing had. He came into the room and sat down next to Andrew. His heart sank when he realized he was having some trouble breathing. He was on oxygen, but it didn't seem to be helping as much as it should. Peter pressed the button to summon the nurse. She came in and adjusted the level up. The grimness in her expression told Peter they were running out of time. Quietly she informed him she thought it was time to make any needed calls, though he was way ahead of her, and had already made them. She patted his shoulder and left the room.

Peter thought about what had happened down in the chapel, as he stared once more out the window. Ironically, the rain had stopped, and the sun shone weakly through the clouds. He smirked at the sight. "Come on, you can do better than that," he scolded the watery rays.

"I'm sorry. I'm doing the best that I can." came the weak reply from the bed.

"What?" Peter whirled around, shocked that Andrew had heard him. He hurried over to the bed.

Andrew was peering up at him, an odd look on his face. "Hiya Peter Rabbit!"

"Andrew, are you alright?"

Andrew grinned. "Course I am. Are you?" His face was serene, his eyes nearly glowing.

Peter nearly panicked at the nickname he had not heard Andrew use since their days in Stalag 13. "Cor And that was when Peter knew time was up. Andrew's tethers to Planet Earth were loosening. And he could not let him go quite yet.

Newkirk reached out and took his best friend's hand. It was cold... much colder than it had been even an hour ago. It was now or never. "Andrew me lad, can you hear me okay?"

Carter nodded but said nothing. Newkirk saw the light in those dancing blue eyes slowly begin to dull.

Peter spoke quickly. "Andrew, I just wanted you to know. I built a bridge tonight... Me an' God. We're on speakin' terms. You was right, mate. You allus said He would find a way to bring me back in His own way. An' He did. I'm gonna miss you, mate. But I'm gonna be okay."

Carter gazed at him, nodded and finally smiled a gentle, peace-filled smile. Quietly he murmured, "Don't forget your promise, Peter. Make it a good one, okay?"

Peter found he could only nod as Carter squeezed his hand and closed his eyes, falling back to sleep. Soon, his breathing began to slow, and though Peter lost track of time, he felt it when it happened. Andrew was gone.

 **The Funeral Home**

Peter Newkirk was pretty sure he'd gone 'round the bend. The past 24 hours had been a blur. He had dealt with the hospital right after Andrew had died and spent a few minutes with Mark Hennessey. He then went back to his flat and put the plan they had concocted into effect. He placed the special mat he and Andrew had constructed into the garment bag, along with Andrew's old Air Corps jumpsuit, bomber jacket, cap and boots. Andrew had brought them with him from the States specifically because he felt they were particularly appropriate for the occasion.

Peter knew that once Andrew's body left the funeral home, the casket would likely not be opened by the crematorium. And that was what Andrew was counting on. Because Andrew Carter was determined to go out with a bang. And Peter Newkirk was determined to help him. The funeral director obliged him when he asked to be alone for a bit, with the coffin open. He told them he would leave the clothing with them when he left, and they agreed, and left the room.

He grimaced, but at least Andrew didn't look as bad as he had thought he might. He realized it was probably because he was so cold. He didn't even want to dwell on that thought, so he bent quickly to his task. He made quick work of placing the popper-infused mat inside the padded lining of the lid of the pine coffin. There were about a thousand poppers inside the thin silk mat, and if Carter had estimated properly, and he nearly always did, the noise should be spectacular, while the damage would be negligible. Andrew Carter would literally go out in a blaze of glory.

Peter grinned as he quickly stitched the last of the padding back into place. "There ya go, Andrew me old son. Give 'em hell, mate!"

He zipped the garment bag shut and called the director back in. "Thank you for that. Here are the clothes he be wearin."

The director nodded. "Quite often, we do not have the deceased wearing clothes at all. Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

Newkirk stared at the director, his eyes hard. "You make damn sure you put those clothes on him. That was one of 'is last wishes."

The director held up a placating hand. "My apologies, sir. I meant no offense. Of course we will make sure he is dressed as requested."

Peter turned and left the room. He paused at the door, but he didn't look back. "Goodbye Carter," he whispered. And he crossed the lobby and stepped out into the rain.

 **The Crematorium**

Edgar Finch hated his job. Actually, he hated just about everything and everybody. He was unpleasant and unkempt. He was also the director's wife's son by her first marriage. And she practically worshipped the kid. And his wife held the purse-strings. So Edgar Finch's job was safe. Even if he was a total ass.

His step-father Nigel Bookman had been trying for many months to find a way to get rid of him, or at least to get him away from the business. He gave Edgar the position in the crematorium because it was not a terribly difficult job and it kept him away from the public eye. He never had to interact with the living customers. That in itself was a boon to the business. He had tried allowing him to drive the hearse they used to transport to and from the funeral homes and that had proven to be a costly mistake. Two speeding tickets and one wrecked hearse later, he had finally moved him to the crematory.

So far. he had been there for six months with only one unfortunate incident. Nigel had been able to smooth things over with a minimum of fuss, and the panic of missing ashes had never been repeated. He prayed it never would, because the threat of a lawsuit still stung his ears and if they had not found the missing urn of ashes at the last minute, he could have been ruined. What the ashes had been doing in the men's locker room was still not a puzzle Nigel wanted to even begin to contemplate.

On this rainy, grey morning, Nigel had left Edgar to his work and had gone into London to pick up some supplies. Edgar was actually quite good at his job, despite all his complaining. The upstairs lobby was closed, as it was Saturday afternoon, and Nigel always took the third Saturday afternoon of the month off. Edgar got the time off only if he didn't have a customer waiting, which in this case, he did.

Fortunately for Edgar, the old man had already been packaged and was all ready to go. Edgar was happy because that meant all he had to do was scrawl his signature on the forms and shove the coffin into the furnace, turn on the gas, let the oven do its thing, and then sweep the ashes into the chute and then into the urn. Piece of cake. Boring, actually. He made all the preliminary checks. He noted the name on the paperwork and turned towards the incinerator. Some cremation techs actually opened the casket and checked the body before they roasted them, but not Edgar. He had no time for that nonsense. He figured the old man had already done all that upstairs, so he was not about to bother with it, especially today. Most especially not some geezer he doubted anybody gave a damn about.

He unlocked the heavy door and swung it open. The blast of intense heat always excited him. He felt sort of like a god whenever he shoved the bodies into the chamber. He alone had the power to reduce a human body into ashes... into nothingness. He would never admit it to his stepfather, but he hadn't minded one bit when the old fart transferred him down here. He preferred dead people to living ones anyway. They were quieter and a helluva lot more cooperative.

Edgar slid the casket into the chamber, shut and pulled the lever to lock it. He hit the big green button to start the cremation process. And sat back to wait. Wait for the body to break down into nothing... into ashes. Boredom immediately began to set in and he started tapping his foot almost immediately.

Edgar had no clue that thanks to two old warriors, his boring job was about to become intensely interesting...Because about one minute later all hell broke loose inside the incinerator. Edgar hit the deck as the sound of about a thousand firecrackers went off nearly simultaneously. They weren't as loud as fireworks, but they were damned impressive. And Edgar could not open the incinerator to see what the hell was going on. Not that he would have if he could have. He did NOT want to know! But he came to an instant and permanent decision. He was getting the hell out of that room. Out of that building. The cremation process was pretty much automatic anyway. Not that he cared. Edgar Finch hauled ass and never looked back. He called his stepfather from the safety of his flat.

For his part, Nigel Bookman was mystified by Edgar's actions. When he got to the crematorium and checked out the incinerator, all he found were the client's remains, waiting to be gathered and placed into his urn, which he did, with the most solemn respect. He called the man's friend and told him that the cremains of his loved one were ready to be picked up. Newkirk came immediately, a little shocked that nothing was said about their antics. He was in for a further shock when he was presented with the final bill for the crematorium's services. It was marked, "Paid in Full." He knew that the funds Andrew had set up for the purpose had not been accessed. He looked at Bookman, confusion in his expression.

Nigel Bookman smiled. "Let me just say, I have no idea what happened during your friend's stay with us, but I will be forever grateful for his service."

Peter nodded, and the two men stood and shook hands. Peter left the building and realized as he stepped onto the sidewalk that for the first time, the sun was shining brilliantly. He chuckled and squinted up into the azure sky. "Well done, mate, well done!"

 **~The End~**

 **A/N:** I know very little about crematoriums or their downstairs practices. I did work-study as a receptionist at a funeral home in college. I did go downstairs a few times to deliver messages. I have also worked with grieving families and helped set up viewings and services. No disrespect was intended or should be inferred in this piece. Personally, when I go… I would love to go out with a bang… even if it's only loading my coffin with popcorn. ;-)


End file.
